


Now you must endure

by the_authors_exploits



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: #liviadeservesbetter, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Unrequited Love, Violence, is it unrequited if you both love each other but it'll never work out?, she also hates everyone just an fyi; she's my ball of bitter anger, she's probably a total mary sue and i dont care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-18
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-07-24 09:06:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7502439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_authors_exploits/pseuds/the_authors_exploits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Livia has lived her life wanting more, seeking anarchy and swallowing the Circle's fear behind false sincerity; she doesn't fear the Templars, she doesn't fear blood magic, she doesn't fear the Chantry. She craves freedom and wants to see the world burn. This is her journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So Im currently playing through Origins, even though Ive already played Inquisition, and it's...causing a lot of turmoil in my life; so I thought what better way to cope than write down my character's journey?
> 
> Im gonna say it right now, my knowledge of Dragon Age is limited to what I learned in Inquisition and what little from Origins so far; Im probably missing a lot of information and lore, so I am sorry if anything is incorrect or annoys you. I did my best

The Harrowing doesn’t take much out of her; Livia, short and small, pointed ears and jagged edges, doesn’t feel pride when she awakes in the dorms. She hears the whisperings, the excited chatter from Jowan banging around in her head; _“it was the shortest Harrowing”_ , _“she’s awake now?”_ , _“Irving wants to see her right away”, “she must be so proud!”_. It doesn’t matter; the Harrowing was not her choice, and she knows her seeming accomplishment will not be reflected on her but the Circle.

“Wh-what was it like?” Jowan asks; tender Jowan, gentle and ever unsure. He’s been her closest companion for years, and she looks up at him and smiles, even if she doesn’t want to.

“It was the Harrowing,” she says cryptically.

“Yes, but what was it like?” He shifts. “What did you see?”

She knows she can’t tell him all the details without getting into trouble. “I went into the Fade; I saw lots of things. It’s all…very interesting.”

He heaves a sigh, and fiddles with his hands. “I’m never going to go to my Harrowing.”

“Don’t say that.” She steps forward and puts a hand on his arm. “You’ll have your chance when you’re ready.”

“I’ll never be ready! I’ve been here longer than you, and you’ve always excelled far above me.” He pulls away from her then, and he speaks quietly. “You know what happens to people who can’t pass the Harrowing.”

There are two options: they die, or become Tranquil. Neither one is an option for her friend. “You’ll be fine.”

“I’ve been thinking,” he speaks. “What if I…just choose to be Tranquil?”

Choose; as if he has a choice. Oh, they want all the mages to think they have a choice; but they don’t. They never do; it’s come, be sent, be taken to the Circle of Magi, or be hunted by the Templars, the Chantry. They have no choice.

“You’ll be called for your Harrowing soon, I’m sure of it.”

“Even then, there’s no guarantee I’ll pass; I’d rather just get the inevitable done with on my own time! I don’t want to, but it’s my only option; better to be dead, I suppose…” He takes a breath, and his shoulders rise and fall with it. “But enough of my troubles; this is a happy occasion for you.”

It’s not.

“First Enchanter Irving says he wants to see you right away; ohh, you’ll be moving up with them now, huh? Up on the second floor; you won’t forget me, will you?”

She smiles softly; “No, how could I forget my most trusted companion?”

“I should let you go,” he steps away. “Irving said right away and I’ve kept you long enough; congratulations again, Livia!”

The words mean nothing to her; she takes her time to exit the dormitory, listens casually to the murmurs and whispers. Everyone sounds so happy and ecstatic for her accomplishment; she doesn’t. Years locked up in this place, following a strict schedule and code of conduct, she doesn’t find much happiness in accomplishments laid out before her by the Circle.

She passes through the libraries, rooms of books and texts and knowledge she’s poured over many a time, and observes the occasional apprentice studying and practicing under their mentor’s steely gaze; Senior Enchanter Leorah, surrounded by young ones listening intently to her lesson. She pauses enough to smile kindly at Livia.

“I remember when you were this age; how cute all you are!”

Livia looks to the children but she doesn’t she cute and innocence; she sees children who should be running around fields in the bright sun, petting bugs and farm animals, feet pounding against cobblestone roads as they play. Not trapped between towers of books, fearful around men in silver armor appointed by the Chantry to keep the peace, shadows cast by torches and candles as they study relentlessly.

She doesn’t say anything to Leorah, merrily dragging her eyes across the older woman’s face before continuing on her way; her insubordination can be excused by many things today, and she takes advantage of that. Through more mazed hallways, up the lengthy flight of stairs to the second floor; she hasn’t come up here incredibly often, and normally only for the stockroom Owain runs with the other Tranquils or for lessons, so she takes her time, shuffling her feet and poking her head into as many rooms as possible.

There’s the Chantry she hardly pays any attention to, and the various laboratories in use by Enchanters; she listens to them whisper amongst themselves, and continues on her way. She really shouldn’t leave Irving waiting too long. She takes the next stairwell, encased in stonewalls and narrow, faster up to the third floor; as she comes out of it, she hurries for Irving’s office, thankful for each floor having such a similar layout that she doesn’t get lost.

She’s just passing by a Templar—the armor long since having lost meaning among these walls to Livia—when he steps forward.

“M-miss,” he stutters, and she actually pauses shocked; she blinks at him curiously.

“Yes?”

“You’re…you’re the new apprentice, right? The one who just completed her Harrowing?”

She nods; who is this fool? “Can I help you?”

“I-I was there; it was amazing to see. You we-were so strong and…” He trails off. “I’m Cullen; I was the one charged with…with cutting you down if you…didn’t succeed.” Again, he trails off.

“Well,” she says, “It’s a good thing you weren’t need then.” As if a demon could tempt her so much to give her body as a vessel; even when the demon called for its freedom, to possess her and control her actions, she laughed in its face.

“Y-yes, well…” he’s blushing now and looking at the ground. “I…I’m not sure I would’ve been able to do it…”

Livia takes a breath. “I really must get going, Ser Cullen; First Enchanter Irving is waiting on me.”

“Oh, of course!” He steps back into place at the door he was guarding. “I’m sorry I kept you.”

She makes to Irving’s place with no more interruptions, and she steps into the open doorway on silent feet; there’s a gathering, and it would appear Greagoir is hysterical about something or another. Irving, ever difficult to read with his beady eyes and grey beard, stands calmly and listens as Templar Greagoir practically yells at…an unfamiliar face.

This piques Livia’s interest, and she studies the third man’s face intently; dark skinned, with ever dark hair, black straight to the roots. There’s a calm danger about the man, with the way his voice speaks evenly and his arms fold crossly about his chest. She wonders what freedom he has to be built the way he is, with the strength of a Drake and the casualness of a breeze through the trees; she envies him momentarily. What sun has marked his skin, and what journeys have tugged at his heart?

Her envy morphs into anger that she directs at Irving, bottling it tight in her heart and letting it fester as she’s done for years.

The stranger’s eyes are intent on her, and she feels something lurch inside her; he’s looking at her as he looked at Greagoir, as he looked at Irving—he looks at her like she’s more than a mage. “Enough of this business, Irving; I believe you have a visitor.” He nods towards her, and the two other men turn to greet her.

“Ahh, Livia! There you are; congratulations on your Harrowing.”

“Regretfully I will not be turned into a Tranquil, Greagoir; many apologies.”

The Templar leader sneers; “Remember what we talked about earlier, First Enchanter,” he says, and then he’s pushing past her with the force of a bull. She dutifully stumbles out of the way.

“Duncan, this is the apprentice I spoke of; Livia, this is leader of the Grey Wardens, Duncan.”

She steps closer and nods respectfully to the Grey Warden. “The Grey Wardens are here? Is there a problem?”

“There’s a darkspawn army forming; I’m here to ask the Circle for help.”

“Oh, Livia, you’ll be happy to know we’ve prepared rooms for you on the second floor; you can move in immediately if you wish. And your phylactery has already been sent to Denerim for safe keeping.”

“You mean my leash has been sent to Denerim.”

“I’m sorry,” Duncan interrupts and Livia’s gaze is drawn to him again; she longs to ask questions, but she bites her tongue tight. “What is a phylactery?”

“We take samples of our apprentices’ blood when they arrive, in case they turn into a maleficar—one who has dabbled in blood magic, or have done some other unspeakable notion and need to be tracked down.”

“In the crudiest most honest terms, Ser Warden, the phylactery is a cage that holds us under the Chantry’s thumb.”

“Enough, Livia!” Irving barks and she dutifully schools her face into impassivity. “I can deal with most of your insubordination, especially considering the experience you have just come through, but that is enough now; my apologies, Grey Warden. She’s one of our more…difficult apprentices.”

Duncan tips his head in understanding. “No trouble at all.”

“Livia, would you escort Duncan to his room? It’s on the east end.” To the Warden, Irving bowed respectfully. “May we continue our conversation at a later date?”

“Of course, First Enchanter.”

Livia turns with ease and grace and floats from the room on solid steps; Duncan followed her, his casual gait seeming so relaxed compared to Livia’s tense movements and straight back.

“Do you like it here, Livia?”

“What’s there not to like?” she quips. “There are tomes of books to pour over a hundred times over, spells to study, the Fade to dream in, a distinct lack of outside interaction, and of course the Templars keeping us at sword point our whole lives; of course I like it here.”

When Duncan’s footsteps stop, she does too and turns to glance at him over her shoulder. “You don’t like it here.”

“Ser Duncan, do you see many things on your travels?”

He nods; “Yes, I do.”

“I’ve hardly seen across the lake, let alone wondrous monuments and terrifying beasts; you cannot blame me for despising the apparent weights that keep me here.”

He’s staring at her with a strange look to his eyes, his head tipped to the side like this small elf is a puzzle to be solved. “You must be terrifying in combat.”

She freezes; terrifying? In combat? Was that a…compliment…? “I…” She blinks. “Thank you?”

He smiles warmly at her; “Come now, I’m sure you have other duties to attend to, yes? Are these to be my quarters?”

She nods, still rather dumfounded; “Uh, yes; do you require anything else?”

The Grey Warden shakes his head. “No, thank you, Livia.”

She nods and leaves him, shutting the door behind her; she’s too dazed to spot Jowan running around the corner towards her. Not until he’s right in front of her, panting, does she register his presence. “Jowan?”

“I’ve found you at last!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Not here.” He glances around, clearly frightened. “Meet me in the Chantry; I have to speak to you. It’s urgent!”

And then he’s gone again; the panic in his voice has Livia glancing around suspiciously as she hurries. Her steps, where previously measured and heavy, now work quick and light to carry her down the stairs and towards the Chantry’s doors; she avoids this place as much as possible, so Jowan would have good reason to invite her here. She steps through and sees her friend in the corner, waving her over; there’s a Chantry sister at his side, wringing her hands nervously.

Livia picks up her pace. “What’s going on?”

“Livia, this is Lily; she and I…well…”

“We’re in love,” Lily confesses, and Livia raises a brow delicately; she knows the implications of this, the vows Chantry workers take, and what it would mean for a sister to be intimate with a mage.

“Uh, congratulations?”

“That’s not why I called you here; Lily found a parchment on Greagoir’s desk—about me.”

Livia thinks she knows where this is going, but she waits patiently.

“I am to be made Tranquil!”

A heavy stone settles in Livia’s chest; Tranquil. Against his will, Jowan is to be made Tranquil; she remembers him saying he would choose to be made Tranquil rather than die, though neither appeals to him. She understands him well. “Why?”

“They think he’s been doing blood magic! And Irving has signed his consent!” Lily explains in a hushed whisper.

“Have you?” Livia turns her steely gaze on her companion; it doesn’t matter to her one way or the other. She defies the Circle with her twisted tongue and poisoned paint upon her face, caked thick and dark; if Jowan defies the Circle with blood magic, that’s his choice.

“Of course not!” He shakes his head furiously, and she readily believes him; “But there are apparent witnesses, saying I’ve secreted away in the night to practice it! I’ve only come to visit Lily.” He takes her hand and holds it close. “I don’t want to be Tranquil; they’ll take my dreams but most of all my love for my dearest! Livia, it’s all I have…”

“I suppose you have a plan; what do I do?”

He looks at her, perhaps momentarily shocked, before nodding. “I must destroy my phylactery if we are to escape tonight; to do that, I have to get into the basement.”

“But the door,” Lily speaks, “is a two part lock; Greagoir holds one key, Irving the other.”

“Keys aren’t an option,” Jowan laments; it’s times like this Livia wonders what it would be like to be a rogue, to know lock picking, to flit with the wind to and fro…

She shakes those thoughts from her head and steadies calmly on the task at hand; if she cannot be free, she will give Jowan his. “So how do we get in?”

They lay their plan out; a fire rod should burn through the locks. Livia just needs to acquire one from Owain at the stockroom, so she hurries out from the Chantry and to the stockroom. Owain doesn’t give her a rod; in his toneless voice, he explains she needs a signed thesis explanation for him to hand over such an item. But Livia is slippery, so she hurries to Sweeney; the old bat has poor eyesight, and she holds her breath as he squints at the release statement she’s asked him to sign.

He laughs in her face; “Last time I signed one of these forms, the boys used the rod to burn a hole into the female dormitory; no, I won’t sign it for you.”

She snatches the paper from him after pleading, and marches away without a word; there’s only one other option. She has to go to Irving; she squares her shoulders and enters his office. “First Enchanter, would you sign this release form for me?”

The elderly mage shifts his gaze over the paper. “And why do you want one of these?” He peers at her curiously over the paper.

“I’m studying the effects of fire; you know my fire magic is poorly.”

“Hmm…” He hands the paper back. “Without a proper thesis upon your exact studies, I can’t sign this.”

Once more she wonders what it would be like to have the skills necessary to steal; she could slip into the storeroom, nab a rod, and free Jowan. But deliberating over what ifs is sending Jowan further towards becoming a Tranquil. “Is it true?” She doesn’t have a choice at this point. “Are you to make Jowan Tranquil?”

“Ahh,” understanding flickers across the First Enchanter’s face. “You’ve spoken with Jowan, have you? He’s your friend, isn’t he?” Irving nods. “I see things clearly now; you want the rod to burn through the locks and get into the phylactery storage. Well, it won’t work; there’s a magical barrier that only the keys can remove.”

“So it is true?” Livia shakes her head. “Jowan doesn’t practice blood magic.”

“Whether he practices or not is of no consequence; he still will never be prepared to pass the Harrowing.” Irving smooths his beard. “There is another way into the vault; let’s make a pact.”

She feels something heavy settles in her ribcage and slither about; “What?”

“I’m sure he wants to run away with that Chantry girl he’s been eyeing, and I would so love to see the Chantry embarrassed; so I tell you an alternate path into the vault, and I lay and ambush for the pair. We can pin it on the Chantry girl. Oh, how delightful!”

“You would do this all to get back at the Chantry?” she’s disgusted she’s even entertaining this conversation; she doesn’t want to betray Jowan, but she has to get him into the vault and out of the tower. Maybe she can help them avoid the ambush after his phylactery has been destroyed…

Irving’s eyes twinkle and he smiles down at the girl. “Wouldn’t you?”

She knows she’s being played, so she plays him back; “Fine; it would be nice to see the Chantry up in arms about a traitor. Will you sign the paper?”

With a flourish, the release form is signed and she is gone; with the rod in hand, she meets the lovers in the basement and from there they try to open the vault door. It doesn’t work, so she casually suggests an alternate route; they agree, though Jowan gives her a questioning look.

They find secrets, a whole room filled with Tevintar artifacts, a voice from a statue saying she was a servant trapped in stone; Lily claims it’s a spirit and beseeches them to stop talking to it, while Jowan complains about wasting time. Livia wants to ask the thing questions, demon or not, but knows they aren’t here for this; she uses the rod to collapse the fowl wall and Jowan runs into the vault excited.

He glances about excitedly, running to and fro through the rows of phials; she follows at a steadier pace, partially marveling at her friend’s new found animatedness and partially keeping an eye out for his phial in case he misses it.

“It’s too bad my phylactery’s been sent to Denerim already,” she laments as she looks at one of the child apprentice’s phylactery.

That catches Jowan’s attention, and he turns to look at her. “Would you break it?”

“I would follow you if you would have me.”

His gaze is mournful, and she averts hers to keep looking; when they do find his phylactery, he smashes it with vigor, grinning madly. Lily swoops in to kiss him and it’s a clumsy thing; Livia glances at the vault door. From this side, they can open it with no trouble, but she also knows what awaits them at the basement entrance.

“Jowan, I have to confess something…”

“It can wait, Livia; we have to get out of here before we draw any attention.”

“Jowan, it’s important.”

He shakes his hand and takes Lily’s hand, dragging her for the door. “We’re free, my beloved,” he says, and Lily nods excitedly.

Livia hesitates, before taking a half step forward. “It’s a trap!”

That gets his attention, and he stops just as he touches the doorknob. “What?”

“I told Irving; I had to. We had to get the rod.”

He turns a cold gaze to her, and the air around them lowers considerably; she’s never seen such hate in his eyes, only ever felt it in her heart, and she swallows.

“Jowan…”

“You betrayed me!”

“I had to!”

He tucks Lily closer, who’s begun shaking with repressed tears. “How could you? You, of all people!”

“The rod wouldn’t have worked! At least now your phylactery is broken and you have a chance!”

“I thought you were on my side.”

“I am.”

He shakes his head. “I hate you,” he snarls, and then he is gone, Lily in his arms.

Livia stands in the cold room, amid the bottles of blood, with a cracked on at her feet and blood seeping into the stone; she wants to destroy all the bottles, both from her rage and her wish for mages to be free, but she knows better so she stays her magic. To destroy all the bottles would only draw the wrath of the Chantry.

Besides, there’s her friend to go save; she hurries after him, and comes upon them ambushed at the basement entrance.

“You are under arrest,” Greagoir’s voice booms. “For using blood magic, and you will be made Tranquil; as for you,” he turns to Livia. “You are also under arrest for treason.”

“She was only following orders,” Irving defends, and Livia wants to snap at him, to deny it, because she didn’t want to betray Jowan.

In the back of the crowd gathered she spots Duncan; he’s as relaxed as ever, though more serious now, and while he doesn’t look tensed for battle his hand rests on the hilt of his sword and she knows he’ll join the fray if needed. She feels more chastised by the dark tip to his brows than Greagoir’s boisterous voice or big sword.

“Please,” Lily pleads. “We’re in love, and Jowan doesn’t practice magic; can’t we just go?”

Livia wants to scoff; she took vows, she should have known the Chantry’s thoughts on mages in general. They can’t go; they can never just go…

Livia is standing right besides Jowan, so she should have seen it coming; she should have known what was going to happen, from the tensing of his shoulders or the sudden surge of mana in the air. But she didn’t know; she was too intent on finding an escape route, of fixing what she’d broken, what she’d gotten them into.

One moment, she’s standing, staring down the mages and Templars, standing fast at her friend’s side—and the next there’s a dark energy rippling through the air, into her very being, and she goes down to the ground fast and heavy. Blood magic tastes different than other magic, she thinks as her vision goes black; it tastes earthier, dirty but not unpleasant.

She comes to slowly, to groaning Templars, some bleeding from various wounds she knows aren’t supposed to be there; Jowan is nowhere to be seen, and Lily is escorted away shortly to be judged and most likely imprisoned. Greagoir wants her too, wants Livia strung up and made Tranquil for aiding a meleficar, when Duncan steps in.

Duncan mentions joining the Grey Wardens, and something jolts in her chest; the flutter of wings of a caged bird, but she schools her emotions when Irving goes to hand her over because, after all, she was merrily following his orders.

“I don’t have much of a choice, do I?” Because really, even if this is what she wants, she doesn’t want it like _this_ ; Irving hands her over like he’s handing the reins of a mount to a new owner, an exchange of business where she is the property.

“Not many of us do,” Duncan quips, and how she wants to make his armor melt off his shoulders, freeze the roots of his hair, confuse his mind into thinking the shadows are enemies—never mind how she admires him. _“Not many of us do”?_

What does he know of not making choices? He’s been on the outside for his whole life; Livia hasn’t left the tower in years. She’s been tucked between stacks of books, watched by men hiding behind silver armor, with no memory of the sun for years now; what does he know of the thirst for freedom?

It’s a good thing she doesn’t have much time to think on this development; she gathers her meager belongings and, still dressed in her mage robes, steps out of the tower and down to the docks, climbs into a boat she only remembers being in once before. As the row across the water, Duncan politely conversing with Kester, she breathes in deeply and closes her eyes against the warm sun.

Behind her, the mage tower is still imposing, but the hinges on her gilded cage are finally coming loose and she takes the time to beat her wings furiously. She’s nearly free.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not that she’s free of the Circle; they still have her phylactery, and she’s not fool enough to think that’ll ever go away, but she’s as free as she’s ever been and for that she’s thankful. She wants more, of course, her hunger never sated; but this is a start.

After the boat ride across Lake Calenhad, and a few days ride from there, Duncan welcomes her to their encampment; the king is there, King Cailan, and the man is all smiles and laughter and confidence. Livia is momentarily amazed that the king can be so sure of their victory against the hoard that’s rising, though she’s only heard whispers of it.

“You do not think the same as the king,” she observes when Cailan has left and Duncan looks disturbed.

“No, I don’t; I think Cailan is a good king, but he is far from understanding the severity of the situation.” Duncan sighs. “It’s a Blight, which means we have to be prepared.”

Livia glances about the camp as the trek further into it. “Moral seems to be high though, all things considered.”

Duncan guffaws, and rests a hand companionably on her shoulder. “You can believe that if you want.”

It wasn’t a belief, she wants to argue; it was an observation.

“Alright then, feel free to look around the camp all you like; I have some business to attend to before we can begin the Joining.”

“The…Joining?”

“Ahh,” Duncan mutters. “It’s a ceremony we have when we get new Grey Wardens; there are two others besides you. Maybe you can find them before looking for my assistant Alistair.”

With that Duncan leaves, and Livia is left alone under a clouded sky, surrounded by ruins and fauna—and she grins. She takes her time walking about the camp, gaze lingering over the marbari in their cages, eyes turning towards the elves that scurrying to and fro for their masters. She nears the smithy, where a few people have gathered, waiting for armor or weapons or just congregating; as she nears, one of the gathered—one who’s been making strange comments to a woman—turns to view Livia’s approach.

He eyes her, glancing from her face to her feet and back up again; his grin, a lopsided thing, widens and he steps forward. “Well hello, there, I don’t believe we’ve met; I’m Daveth. And who might you be, lovely lady?”

Flirting; those were the strange comments he was giving to the other woman. She’s not used to flirting; there was no one of interest at the Tower, and Jowan and her never went beyond platonic talks. “Livia.”

“Charming!” He says, and she actually thinks he means it. “An elven mage, here; are you another Grey Warden recruit?”

That his first thought upon her elven heritage, not to mention her magical qualities, would be to speak to her in a respectful manner catches her momentarily off guard. “Yes, I am; are you?”

He grins proudly. “I am!” He glances about. “There’s another one around here somewhere, but I can’t find him.” He turns a grin on her. “Come, let’s go get some refreshments; there might be some alcohol around here.”

Alcohol she hasn’t indulged in very often; wine is most often at the Tower. “Duncan told me to find Alistair.”

“Ahh, yes, I think he’s somewhere up there in those ruins.” He points to the left. “You sure you don’t want to grab a drink, beautiful?” he winks at her, and Livia smiles.

“No, thank you, though I appreciate the attention.”

He tips his head in farewell, and turns back to his other companion. “Agria, where are you going?”

With a shake of her head, Livia steps away from Daveth and towards the ruins; she comes upon who she believes to be Alistair, a man clad in gray armor, tarnished from use, with short cropped dark blond hair. There’s a mage there too, bickering about with Alistair, obviously irritated; Livia enjoys the scene, watches the mage huff and puff and stomp away.

She’s grinning when Alistair turns to her. “Ah, sorry you had to see that.”

“Why was he so irritated with you?”

“Ahh, well, I’m just a messenger for the mother at the Chantry.” He scratches at his chin. “But I think she chose me specifically to poke at him; I used to be a Templar before I was a Grey Warden.”

Her grin immediately falls and she crosses her arms. “Ah, so you’re a mage hunter; how was that? Invigorating?”

He blinks at her. “I…I was a Templar, but it wasn’t ever…enjoyable.”

She doesn’t say anything; it doesn’t matter what he says. All Templars despise mages, all Templars enjoy hunting apostates; they choose to be a Templar, after all. “Duncan told me to find you for the Joining.”

“Oh, yes; you must be the new recruit! I’m Alistair—but you already knew that. And you are?”

“Livia.”

He nods when she doesn’t say anything else. “Well, come on; time to round up your other recruits. There are two, have you met them?”

“I’ve met Daveth.” She follows the once-Templar from the ruins and down a set of steps, back towards the center of camp.

“Jory should be around here somewhere…” Alistair shoots her a grin, which nearly brings a twitch to her lips. “We’ll have to track him down, yes?”

She bites her cheek; “What is the Joining?”

Daveth comes into view, and he glances up from his sword he was polishing; his grin draws one from her, and he hops up to join their party. “Yes, Alistair, won’t you tell us?” his tone is teasing, but Livia thinks he too is serious about wanting information.

“We don’t share anything about the Joining; it’s our little secret.”

Livia squints around the camp; suspicion creeps through her, but she brushes it aside. It can’t be that dangerous, that horrible, or else Duncan wouldn’t let them go through it; she trusts Duncan. He took her from the Tower, despite the drama of being branded a near traitor, and he’s only ever treated her with respect. She has no actual reason to question him so, once they’ve collected Knight Jory and are standing before Duncan for their tasks, she listens calmly.

She does ask Duncan about the Joining when he starts talking, but he’s tight lipped; she listens to him give the orders, to collect three vials of darkspawn blood, and wonders why Jory seems so anxious. It’s darkspawn, she hasn’t faced them before but she has faced a demon in the Fade during her Harrowing—darkspawn can’t be that bad.

“And, if you’re feeling up for it, go to the ruins further into the Wilds—you’ll see them—and see if you can’t retrieve the Grey Warden contracts. They’re important if this Blight gets any bigger.” Duncan looks over them, assessing each one with a calculated gaze. “Alistair, watch after them; alright, off you get!”

With Alistair taking the lead, they turn to leave; Livia is just taking a step when a hand clasps her wrist tight. She jolts to a stop and turns back, looking up to make eye contact with Duncan. He has a hold on her wrist, not tight, but definitely restricting, and she tense.

“Be careful,” Duncan murmurs. “Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

“Are you saying that because I’m an elf, woman, or mage?”

Duncan frowns and Livia feels oddly chastised and remorseful. “I’m saying this,” he speaks calmly, quietly, but his grip is tight and serious. “Because I know you are a reckless, spiteful thing and, while that fuels you, I would prefer to not lose you before your first battle."

He releases her then and marches away to attend his duties, leaving her to rub at the phantom warmth he left behind; she touches her wrist, looks to where the other recruits are slowly disappearing outside the camp. There’s something warm spreading through her, something happy, prideful. He called her reckless, a term used against her in the past, he called her spiteful, but his tone wasn’t accusatory, wasn’t disdainful—he called her reckless and said that was her fuel.

The grin that breaks out across her face is blinding and she skips to catch up with her fellow recruits; yes, she is reckless and she spiteful and she holds his words close—she’ll let it fuel her.

She walks casually with them out in the Wilds, laughs when Daveth flirts with her, and casts spells to collect the dark spawn blood; she fells most darkspawn, always the one making the final blow, the one kneeling in the dirt to draw blood. She hands the phials out, one to Jory and to Daveth; she eyes Alistair, their babysitter, and clutches the phial tighter. There’s regret in his eyes, but a turn to his lips. She doesn’t trust him.

They meet a woman out there, and her mother, Wilds witches; there’s a tugging in Livia, strong and powerful. She could be one of them, out here, free; but behind her Daveth and Jory bicker about being turned into frogs, and she realizes that at the moment she fits in here, between the two warriors, their quiet companion. So she takes the missing contracts from Flemeth, the witch mother, and, with a gentle bow, turns away with her companions.

Gathered for the Joining back in camp, she listens to her partners chatter, wonder, discuss what’s about to happen; Jory talks about how he just wants to see his wife and unborn child. Livia has a sinking feeling in her stomach; she swallows, her stomach flipping. They’re going to be fine; this isn’t the Harrowing. This can’t be any worse than that, hardly having affected her at all. She can handle this little welcoming ceremony.

Duncan comes, with a giant silver cup, and he talks about drinking the blood, about not all surviving; he says it with such conviction, such belief, a strange resignation to the ceremony. Something frays in Livia’s soul, untying. Alistair mutters about the powers they’ll get, the reason behind this dangerous action; “it’s what allows us to feel the Fade, the darkspawn.”

Daveth drinks, ever eager, and Livia prays to all the gods she doesn’t believe in to let him live.

He clutches his stomach, his eyes change, whiten, and he collapses, choking on black blood; Livia’s foot twitches, to take a step back, but she holds herself still. He’s dead, she knows that; she stares solemnly down at him. It’s not as if she hasn’t lost friends, or at least acquaintances, before. She had expected different, out here, though; she had hoped for a difference, for a change, for a sweeter journey.

Jory doesn’t hold himself still; he backs away when Duncan advances on him, drawing his sword as Duncan talks of there not being an out. It doesn’t make sense to Livia, that there wouldn’t be a choice to say no; there is an entrance to the camp, and horses to ride out on. Jory should have a choice, everyone should.

Duncan runs him through easily; Jory dies crying out for his wife.

Duncan turns for her, cup outstretched, eyes hopeful, and Alistair’s eyes drift to her face; she sees him, in the corner of her eye, but her gaze is set firmly on Duncan as he explains his reasonings.

“I wish it didn’t have to be so,” he placates. “But I told him there was no way out; he knew when he decided to join.”

He didn’t, Livia thinks; he didn’t, no one did. It is a mockery of freedom to say he did.

He holds the cup out. “I am sorry I had to kill him.”

You’re not, she wants to say, or you would change things.

Instead, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, takes the cup, and drinks deeply; she has no choice.

Her eyes go white, and her mind goes dark; she sees a dragon creature, roaring and slobbering, violent and powerful. For a moment, she wants to be it; she wants to be large, and imposing, taking what she wants when she wants, no one to tell her what to do and how to do it. What to say, how to act, what to cast… She wants to be the animalistic fury that no one lies to, that no one pretends to be her friend only to keep her under their thumb.

Her eyes open and Duncan and Alistair stand above her, looking on in worry and anticipation. She is not that great beast; she is a survivor of a cult full of secrets.

“Thank the Maker,” Duncan breaths, and Alistair offers a hand up; she doesn’t take it. She stands of her own strength, plants her feet as her head spins.

“When I had my Joining,” Alistair speaks, voice somehow lowered and remorseful. “Only one didn’t make it.”

An odd juxtaposition; here stands the only survivor of this Joining.

Duncan holds a locket out to her, and she eyes it.

“After the Joining, we put the blood into a locket…to remember what we’ve lost.”

She knows Alistair means the darkspawn blood; it’s dark and thick and congealing. She snatches the locket.

“How do you feel?” Duncan asks, so very worried.

She turns her glare to him; “You killed them.”

“You’re still in shock, I’m sure.”

The bodies are still laying where they were slain, and there’s a wet spot on Livia’s robes; she doesn’t have to glance down to know it’s blood. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m in shock.”

He had said _not many of us have a choice_ , but she thinks it’s such a pathetic excuse; he could give them a choice. He could have let Jory return to his wife, he could have let her decide to run into the Wilds now that she has no companions tying her down; Duncan’s trust is broken, Daveth is dead at her feet, and Jory has long since gone still.

“Take your time to compose yourself,” he assures her. “But when you’re done please come to the meeting between the king and I; he insisted you be there, if you survived of course.”

Of course; Alistair is looking at her strangely, and she returns his gaze with a suspicious one of her own. “You’ll be great,” he says before following Duncan out of the courtyard, leaving her to stand amongst the ruins.

There is no satisfaction as she stares down at the locket; there is no excitement or joy or pride. There is a rage as blood seeps across the floor, stretching its red fingers out for her boots, the hem of her robes, to stain her clothing further. There’s a set of armor at the entrance of the courtyard for her to change into; she doesn’t. She turns to the solitary tree, ever strong, having broken through the stone floor work; it’s grown tall and thick.

She slams her fist against the thick bark and screams out; there’s a ripping in the air with her voice, and there’s a heat suddenly above her. The leaves change color and fall as dark ash; her outburst doesn’t last long. She still has the locket in her hand and it draws her attention from the tormenting thoughts, the anger of the unfairness of it all.

She tosses the darkspawn blood from the jewelry and bends to scoop the human blood from the floor; from there, she tucks it into a pocket in the new armor and changes quickly. She stands then, in Grey Warden armor, ready to face the meeting; she sees the king and Duncan and their advisors down the stairs and across the way, hazy figures quarrelling.

She takes the first step, and behind her the tree continues to burn.


	3. Chapter 3

She adamantly doesn’t look at Duncan during the entirety of the meeting; she takes any opportunity to disagree with what he says. The one moment she does take his side is when they try to convince Cailan to stay behind, to not go out with the troops.

“Ser,” Livia speaks quietly, placing one hand lightly upon the tabletop to lean closer. “It is going to be very dangerous out there, and I don’t think it would be good for the king to be put in such a situation.”

“I understand your worry, young mage, but I will not put my troops somewhere I would not go.”

Loyalty or honor, whatever it is, Livia finds it stupid; “Ser, if you die, this battle won’t be worth anything.”

He looks at her closely, strangely, as if she’s said something humorous. “Duncan, you certainly find the most unique individuals.”

She pushes away from the table and doesn’t look at the Grey Warden besides her; she can feel his eyes on her, steady and calm and oh-so-dangerous.

“I do, don’t I?” There’s a hint of pride in his voice, and something else—something cold and unsure. Livia doesn’t care; she hates him. “But she does have a point, my king; it isn’t safe for you to be out on the battlefield. You’re too important to be out there.”

Cailan heaves a breath. “Enough of that; I’m going to lead us out there, and that’s final.”

Livia catches sight of the smoldering tree, plumes of smoke still curling into the sky, a far ways behind them; she wonders what’ll happen to Daveth and Jory. Will they be buried, will they be burned, will they be marked and remembered? She wonders where Jory’s wife is, and if she’ll ever know the truth; that her husband died trying to get back to her. A steely thought settles in her, determination to track down the woman and child one day and tell them, apologize, bring her back a token perhaps.

“I’ll give your commands shortly; there are a few more things I need to take care of. Maybe you should check on that mabari you helped earlier.”

She doesn’t say anything to him, and doesn’t move until he’s long gone; King Cailan is still mingling about, speaking to his advisors, getting his issues in order before the battle begins. She finally leaves the war table, trekking back towards the busy part of the camp; she’ll check once more on the mabari. The poor thing was suffering from darkspawn blood, having swallowed some during the battle its previous owner had fallen in, and Livia had brought back a healing flower from the Wilds to help it.

She’s just passing by the smithy when a voice raises loud.

“You there, elf! Where’s my armor I told you to fetch?” It’s the smithy, a spindly grumpy old man, who’s now pointing a finger at her. “You’re all the same; useless, moronic, knife-ears!”

She turns towards him; the mabari can wait a bit. “Excuse me?” her voice is quiet and deceptively calm.

“You heard me!” The man barks. “Now what have you been doing? Where’s my armor?”

Her smile is small, humorless, and she tips her head to the side. “You think I’m a servant?”

He blinks, and then squints at her before his eyes widen. “You aren’t…”

“I’m a Grey Warden.” It’s her new title; she was elf, and then she was mage, and now she is Grey Warden. She’ll use it to her advantage.

“Oh,” he breathes fearfully, and his whole demeanor changes; he takes a step back and hunches his shoulders, hands removed from his hips, and his face slackens into a fear like respect. “Grey Warden, I apologize, I thought you were one of my servant elves. You all look the same, you know.”

No, she doesn’t know; she steps closer on silent feet. “Maybe you should speak kinder to your workers.” It is far from a suggestion; she can feel the mana around her, swirling and whirling, and she wonders if this man can see it too because he cowers away from her.

“Of course, Grey Warden; my sincerest apologies, Grey Warden. I-I swear it won’t ever happen again!”

She clamps down on her magic and pushes it away; the man’s fear is enough, his stuttering apology sufficient in soothing her anger. With one last lingering glare, she returns to her original objective to visit the dog; the mabari is said to be doing better, and she smiles kindly at the keeper; he’s promised that they can try and bond her and the mabari after the battle, and for that she’s happy.

She hopes the war dog will respect her enough to bond with her; she’d seen a strength in the mabari’s eyes, an intelligence, a pain for the loss of its original partner. She respects the young mabari, and she’s happy to have helped it.

Alistair shows then, as she’s turning away from the mabari pens, and she schools her face into a perturbed glare; Alistair sheepishly smiles at her, but she keeps herself still and quiet. “We’re preparing for battle; Duncan wants to talk to us.”

She nods; she won’t speak to Alistair, and she won’t speak to Duncan, and she won’t speak to any other Grey Warden she encounters. Liars and cheats and heartless beasts. Alistair seems to realize he’s not going to get a reaction from her, so he nods and leads the way towards a roaring fire that Duncan stands silhouetted in front of.

“You two will climb the tower and light the signal fire for Loghain’s men to join the fight.”

The battle plan is suicidal, idiotic, or that’s just her opinion; with Duncan and King Cailan leading the attack, drawing the darkspawn further into their trap, Loghain awaits to spring it. He’ll bring his troops in, surrounding the darkspawn, and thus stopping the Blight here.

She doesn’t have to see the Blight to know this is a fool’s goal.

“Duncan, let me fight,” Alistair pleads. “I can be more helpful down there.”

“Alistair,” Duncan speaks, his voice a low growl, not threatening, rather a comforting sound. “Be safe.”

Alistair stares down at his boots, looking remorseful, and something passes between the two men; Livia knows she’s missed something, something important, that’s passed between the two of them. Emotions; for a moment she wonders if she’s misinterpreted these people, their passions and cares, what makes them tick, what forms their heart.

And then she remembers Daveth’s honeyed words, his respect of her, and she remembers Jory’s fear laced voice as he begged for his life; she shutters closed on her compassion, and keeps her arms folded tightly across her chest.

“Any questions?”

She doesn’t say anything; Alistair shakes his head.

“Then get into position; the darkspawn are already at our doorsteps.” Duncan turns to leave, to head out for battle.

“Duncan!” Alistair steps forward hurriedly; Duncan turns a soft smile on the young man. “Be careful,” Alistair speaks quietly.

With a nod, Duncan reiterates the sentiment; and then he disappears into the slowly darkening camp. Livia watches him go, watches the armor glint from the fire, sees him speak quietly with troops as he goes—words of support, of valor, of faith. Poison slicked words, and she should know.

 _I hope you die a fiery death_ , she thinks, though there’s no real merit behind her words; it’s a way to vent her anger, her frustration, to curse those she’s come to despise. She turns to follow Alistair to the tower.

She doesn’t know what happens down on the battlefield, but she knows what happens in the tower; she knows the soldiers stationed there have been overrun by darkspawn, somehow finding a way behind their lines, and she uses lightning to fell as many darkspawns as she can, to save and protect as many soldiers as possible.

They take the front of the tower back, they conquer the first floor, the second, the third; there’s a giant hole in the floor where the darkspawn must have come in from, tunneling the earth beneath their feet to sneak attack them. There are bodies, of the soldiers stationed here, those unlucky enough to have not escaped the darkspawn; Livia lets it fuel her. She lets her mana flow, strong and steady, and when her mana is depleted and needs to replenish, she uses her staff; she channels the staff’s natural energy, its captured mana, into small attacks, little balls of magic that do little to her enemies.

But it’s enough; her mana comes back, restored, and she ignores the sweat dripping down her temple to summon a row of fire. The darkspawn shriek, hideous deformed creatures, and she keeps one eye on Alistair across the room; he swings his sword with expertise, and she returns her attention to her own enemies.

By the time they’ve reached the top of the tower, Livia thinks they’re too late; they fought the darkspawn, wave after wave, but now they’re hear and she races for the fires that will light up the tower, that will signal Loghain, will send aid to Cailan and Duncan and everyone else. She summons fire—what little she knows of her fire magic—and she sends a burst towards the kindling; the wood flares, a small fireplace like hole in the stone wall, and she looks upwards when the fire spreads up the tunnels in the wall.

The signal fire flares to light on the roof, wood crackling and sparks flying, and Livia breathes; they’ve succeeded in their mission. She turns to Alistair, who’s also heaving relieved breaths, and he turns a soft smile on her; she finds herself returning it.

“Should we go help them?” She asks. “Out on the battlefield?”

He shrugs. “I don’t see why not; our orders were to light the signal fire. We did; Duncan never said what to do after.”

Livia nods, a ferocious grin gracing her face; she turns, with Alistair and the other soldiers who survived the attack on the tower, and she barely has time to realize there are a few too many people crowding in through the door. She’s able to tell that the armor they wear is different, and then Alistair dives out of the way, and the soldiers are falling, and she’s just reaching for the tendrils of magic when pain flares in her left arm.

She’s knocked backwards with the arrows that lodge themselves in her arm, in her collarbone, and her vision fades with shock and pain; her final thought is that it must have always been her fate to die in a tower, whether it be the Circle’s or otherwise.

And then she knows no more.


	4. Chapter 4

She wakes up. She wasn’t expecting to wake up, but she does; she’s laying on a bed, not too thick of a mattress but plenty of furs, and there’s a low ceiling above her. Her arm aches where it lays across her middle, tender and stiff, and she remembers a fire and arrows—the battle. She sits up hurriedly, jerkily and unsteady.

“Ahh, you’re awake!”

Livia looks up; the Wilds Witch’s daughter, Morrigan, stands before her. Morrigan’s black hair is shiny in the fire-lit room, and her face is twisted in a smirk.

“It’s only been two days, after all; you’d think you had died, with your reaction to being injured.”

Livia looks down to her arm, the one that had been injured, and flexes the appendage gently; it still aches, but not the burning sensation from that night. She touches where the arrows had lodged into herself, and there is little injury there; she senses a powerful magic under her skin, not her own power, something more free and it swirls intricately.

“You healed me.” It’s both a statement and a question, asking for confirmation.

Morrigan puffs her chest out. “You have Mother to thank for being alive; she swooped in and saved you and your friend from atop the tower, and I cast a few healing spells. Sorry to say no one else made it.”

No one else…made it? Several thoughts run through Livia’s head; she’s still foggy from the healing magic and health potions, the sleep she’s had for days now, and her thoughts flow slowly but all at once.

She thinks about Duncan, and her guilt for wishing upon him a fiery death; she hopes it was painless or at least quick. She hadn’t really meant her curse, she’d been angry. For all the lies he spewed and the lives he took—watching Daveth choke and Jory cry—she had never wanted to see him again; she had wanted him to hurt like she had, but looking back she knows it was a childish wish. Duncan didn’t deserve to die at the hands of a darkspawn, a painful death, not necessarily deserving.

She remembers Cailan, the king with his blond hair and joyous smile, his faith in people and the cause; she knows, somehow, that his death was painful. She wonders what will happen to his body, if someone will go and collect it, give it a proper burial, the respect Cailan deserves. She hopes someone will return his loyalty and respect.

She remembers the mabaris, the other soldiers she’d only seen faces of, the works, the servant elves, all those people; and now everyone is dead.

She comes to a conclusion, though the thought has been nagging at her since Morrigan first spoke—everyone is dead. And if everyone is dead, then she will be considered dead too; and if she is considered dead, then she’s finally free. She can do whatever she wants now; she can travel Thedas, she can fight creatures, she can see monuments and explore ruins and befriend animals. Blight be damned.

She straightens in excitement, face aglow, and she stands excitedly; she prepares to ask Morrigan a question, but the Wilds Witch speaks first.

“Your friend hasn’t stopped asking questions about you; he’s been pacing around the house, waiting for you to wake.”

All the excitement drains from her, retracting back into the glass bottle she keeps a tight lid on. “My…friend?”

“The cute Warden.”

A Warden survived; she is not free. “A Warden?”

Morrigan tips her head to the side; “Maybe you injured your head too.”

Livia frowns.

“The blond one that was with you when you came to pick up the treaties.”

Alistair; Alistair survived. Livia has a vague memory of him diving out of the way; she takes a breath, catalogues her dreams and emotions, she settles them in files and bottles and containers, and she stores them behind a strong door in her heart, somewhere dark and damp. “Where is he?”

“Outside,” Morrigan titters. “By the lake.”

Livia goes; her arm is still stiff at her side, but at least it isn’t her spell arm. She can channel mana through both, but favors her right substantially and she’s grateful it’s still in working condition. She takes only a moment at the door to straighten her clothing and glance about for her staff; she took it from the basement of the Circle of Magi, when she had gone to get Jowan’s phylactery. She’d taken it as her final insubordinate act against the tower.

Morrigan plucks the staff from besides the fireplace and tosses it to Livia; Livia catches it, eyeing Morrigan. The Wilds Witch is difficult to assess, to understand her thought process and personality, and Livia doesn’t quite trust her…

But that is a topic to ponder over later, if ever; right now, Livia has to address Alistair. She takes another breath and steps outside into the marsh.

Alistair is by the lake a few feet from the small hut, Flemeth at his side; she looks amused as Alistair gnaws on his nails and paces around in circles.

“Relax,” Flemeth drawls, her voice scratchy, her hair wispy and gray. “See, here’s your friend now.”

Alistair turns and his eyes are wide, worry etched across every inch of his face; it takes Livia by surprise and she finds herself stumbling closer to him, her own face oddly blank. “You’re alive? Are you alright? You were hurt and unconscious!”

“I am…” she searches his face for a lie; there’s always a catch. “I am well.”

“You were bleeding,” he says, and reaches out for her left arm. He takes it, gently, and examines the slightly pink scar where an arrow pierced her skin. “They wouldn’t let me tend to you; they said magic would work faster.”

“It would,” Livia says and extracts her arm from his grasp. “Are you well?” she finds herself asking and swallows thickly.

“Your friend here was hardly scratched,” Flemeth quips, and Morrigan sidles up beside her with ease.

“I went for cover, and then Flemeth appeared. She…”

“Mother,” Morrigan interjects when Alistair stands there flapping his gums. “Transformed into a giant bird, swooped you up in her talons, and came back here.”

Shapeshifting, something strongly denied by the Circle; Livia grins, and nods respectfully at Flemeth. “I thank you, shapeshifter.”

She returns the nod, and Alistair finally finds his words.

“Livia, we have to tell someone what Loghain did.”

Loghain, Teryn Loghain; the man she lit the signal fire for. “What happened?”

“This Loghain,” Flemeth drawls once more. “Deserted shortly before you lit the signal fire.”

Were they too late? Did Loghain believe everyone had been overrun, that the battle was lost, and he left to warn the others? Or did he leave his King Cailan and the Grey Warden commander to their deaths? Livia turns to Alistair for answers. “What happened?”

He searches her face, eyes wide and unsure, and then he takes a steadying breath; “He abandoned them, on the battlefield, and now he’s branding the Wardens as the traitors.”

“The Wardens are gone,” Livia reminds him.

“We aren’t,” he says with such conviction, Livia thinks she might be knocked back. “We’re going to use those treaties to gain the support of the mages, Redcliffe, the dwarves…everyone we can, and we are going to defeat this Blight and Loghain. We’re going to tell the truth.”

Livia looks out across the water; she’s thankful Flemeth and Morrigan have taken a few steps away, as if to give them privacy, because she’s not sure she could have this talk with an audience. “What if we just left?” she says; they could do it. She could run out into the Wilds, she could march through the streets and no one would know she was there; Alistair could do whatever Alistair wanted to do, and they could watch the world burn and destroy itself amongst the Blight.

“Leave? We can’t leave!” He looks mortified. “We have a duty as Wardens!”

A duty…

“We’re all that’s left to help save Thedas from this Blight; honor dictates we see this battle through.”

Livia looks at him then, really looks at him, in his eyes and into his soul; Loghain is left, and besides if Cailan’s army, if the Templars, if the Wardens couldn’t defeat the Blight, what can two half-dead Wardens do? A mage who wants nothing more than to let the Blight happen, and a once-Chantry child who believe too much in duty and honor.

“Livia,” he says quietly. “We have to do everything we can before we give up.”

She’s not giving up; she could have been free. She searches for any hope in his eyes, anything that says he wouldn’t rat her out if she decided to leave. But he has a duty and he has honor; he would tell the Chantry immediately of her desertion and she would be hunted. She has to kill him, to be free, but she can’t draw on her mana; there’s something innocent and hopeful and tired in his eyes, like someone holding on long since they’ve lost everything, someone refusing to acknowledge the loss in their life, and she sees herself reflected in his eyes for a moment. Shoulders pulled back, determined, rebellious against fate; she sighs. She can’t kill him.

“When do we leave?” she says; a choice? She doesn’t want to think this is a choice, she doesn’t want to think she could have been free in a few short bursts of magic, she doesn’t want to think she could be smelling rain soaked leaves as she runs through the woods. Instead, she tightens her muscles, she plants her feet, and she pretends she had no choice.

Flemeth speaks with them, she hands over the treaties once more, the ones she’d salvaged from the ruined camp; and then she tells them to take Morrigan, that the Blight will reach the Wilds in a bit and that she wants her daughter gone, to see the world and grow stronger.

Livia doesn’t quite believe her, and speaks firmly “If Morrigan wants to come, she can.” Livia isn’t going to force her; this isn’t a decision for Livia to make.

Morrigan does come with them; she follows along with only a few quips at her mother, a few more about the band she’s going to be traveling with, and then a few threats about Livia not touching her stuff and Alistair not even looking at her. Livia takes a moment, at the entrance of the small clearing, with Morrigan and Alistair head of her already bickering loudly; she glances back over the small hut, over the marsh and brush and Wilds.

She glances at Flemeth, standing before her home, grinning wildly; Livia turns and follows Alistair’s footprints in the mud, her foot small against his larger prints.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm trying to fit in more dialogue, and then Im going to work on fitting in a bit more description; also, while Im trying to follow the game as closely as possible, Im going to end up deviating or not copying the game dialogue word for word so....yeahh....

They’re skirting around Ostagar on a deserted backroad, Livia and Alistair alternating between leading their small band; Morrigan doesn’t say much, and Livia still isn’t too sure how she feels about her. She admires the witch for her freedom, but there’s something particularly distrustful about the woman; Livia isn’t sure if she trusts her.

Something’s been nagging at Livia for a while, holes in Flemeth and Morrigan’s story; they knew so much, and yet such little details. And to have only saved them two? Her and Alistair? Surely there were others out on the battlefield that could have been saved too.

“Your mother said something,” Livia says, pausing and turning to watch Morrigan closely. “She said Loghain deserted before we lit the signal fire…”

“That’s correct,” Morrigan says; her face is impassive, blank, and totally emotionless. “And then Mother came in and saved you.”

Alistair is frowning at Livia questioningly, and his brows are dipped low in worry; Livia ignores him to pour her energy into understanding Morrigan. “How did she know that? Did she not come after everything happened, after we were overrun?”

Morrigan’s face breaks into a grin and she crosses her arms, cocking her hip. “Oh, I see; you foolish elf.”

Alistair sidles closer to Livia, his gaze now turned on Morrigan, threatening and distrustful.

“Mother and I watched the battle; it was quite the entertainment, watching them scurry about on the ground. Very interesting, and we had a lovely vantage point on that hill.”

“You watched…” Livia speaks slowly, and her voice slowly raises. “As King Cailan, all his troops, all the Grey Wardens…were slaughtered! And you find that entertaining?”

Alistair shakes; he feels sick.

“Yes; you were doomed from the start.”

“What happened?” Alistair asks before Livia can say anything. “To Cailan? To Duncan?”

Morrigan sighs, huffs. “I don’t know why you want to know, but fine; a great giant ogre,” she speaks slowly, as if to children. “Came and swooped your king up. The ogre squeezed really, really hard, and pop went your king!”

Alistair swears; he shifts restlessly, turning away and then back again quickly, rubbing a hand at his hair and gripping his sword hilt tight; Livia stands solid. She remembers when she first met the king, just a short time ago; he had called her friend without even knowing her name, had treated her as an equal despite her tipped ears and mage staff she carried. He had smiled and boasted and spoke to his people as if they mattered, as if he truly believed in them, as if they were important and capable.

He had been a good man, if a bit foolish.

“And Duncan?” Alistair pleads.

Here, Morrigan falters; Livia sees her blink, glance away for a moment at Alistair’s grief. “He attacked the ogre after your king’s death; he leapt upon it with a fury and felled it but… He was already injured, and was easily overcome by the darkspawn.”

“Oh, Maker’s breath…” Alistair swears again, more brokenly, and he stumbles around once more.

Livia ignores him and stares Morrigan down with a saddened glare. “And you did nothing.”

“What would you want us to do?” Morrigan hisses. “There was nothing to be done.”

“No, of course not; your mother turning into a giant bird to swoop upon a burning, crumbling tower and save two unimportant soldiers from a hoard of enemies couldn’t have been utilized sooner. She certainly couldn’t have done it to save the more deserving people, the ones truly risking their lives.” Livia turns to march away and grasps Alistair’s arm to drag him onwards; he doesn’t really react, only turning a wide eyed gaze on her.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Morrigan says.

Livia doesn’t drop Alistair’s arm, though she does turn back to address the Wilds witch. “Do you even understand?” she says. “Tell me what you know of loss and sacrifice—” she thinks of the Tower, she thinks of her parents, she thinks of the Tower and Daveth and Jory; and, looking at Alistair, she thinks of Duncan and Cailan and all his comrades. “—and then you can speak of understanding.”

It’s not that Livia would willingly sacrifice herself; she’s just not that sort of person, and she doesn’t expect anyone else to be self-sacrificing, but there are alternatives. And right now, as Alistair shakes beneath her tight grip, she hopes she’ll never have to face Flemeth again or one of them will die; there was a possibility, a chance, a choice and Flemeth refused. She stood on the hill and watched them be ripped to pieces, and she found it humorous, entertaining.

And perhaps Livia’s projecting her selfhate for those hurtful words she thought of Duncan, the wish for a fiery death, but she doesn’t care; it’s easier to hate Flemeth, to despise Morrigan, to loathe their callousness. She hates herself too, but it’s easier to cast the blame and direct her emotions there.

Alistair walks besides her, stumbling slightly until his steps became more solid and steady; still, Livia does not let him go and eventually they are taking steps in rhythm together, Morrigan trailing behind them. At one point, Alistair shifts his arm until he’s gripping her hand; she oddly enough lets him.

They don’t speak for a while again, until a mabari barks and comes running from the bushes; it’s the mabari Livia had helped, yet another lucky survivor of the massacre, looking healthier than when she last saw him. Livia goes down to her knee to greet the creature, and Alistair’s hand slips from hers.

“Hello,” she says, and the hound sits with its tongue lolling. “Do you wish to come with us?”

The mabari barks in excitement, and Livia stands again; so their group keeps growing.

“The mabaris are excellent warrior hounds; and this one seems to have bonded to you.”

Livia scratches behind the animal’s ears; they should keep travelling onwards, to Lothering, the small town a short ways from Ostagar. They’ll resupply, get information, and carry on.

Alistair speaks again, voice growing stronger. “What are you going to name him?”

She looks down; the dog tips his head to the side. She’s not creative, doesn’t have any clue what to do; there’s a hint of a name in her mind, the story of the wolf god Fen’Harel. She’s not religious, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. “We will call him Harel,” she says and Alistair shrugs, though Morrigan’s smirk is knowing.

They continue on; Livia shifts her staff against her back, and Alistair clears his throat on occasion. Morrigan tells him to be quiet every time. The mabari trots happily at Livia’s side, tongue lolling, By the time they reach Lothering, Livia is willing to ditch one or the other of her companions if they’ll just stop bickering.

Alistair coughs, and Morrigan huffs. “Will you just shut up, already! Are you ill? You certainly are slowing us down unnecessarily.”

“Enough!” Livia barks; she turns a glare on the two of them, though its affect seems to be lessened by the grinning dog at her side. “I wlll dump you both in this village if you don’t learn to get along!”

Morrigan smirks, and Alistair looks away; Livia huffs a breath. This is a wonderfully promising start; at least Harel has yet to cause any drama. They’re just coming upon the outskirts of the town when Alistair speaks up; she hears him take a breath and is preparing to tell him to shove it where the Maker can’t see.

“We should stop by the Chantry; they’ll likely have work and,” he rattles his empty coin purse. “We won’t make it far on this alone.”

Livia glares at the building; it’s near the entrance, and there are people there crying out the Chant, others gathering around. It’s a hub, apparently; Livia hasn’t been out in society enough, but she can recognize the Chantry by their colors. She turns sharply from it. “If you want to, be my guest.”

“The Chantry is full of idiotic fearful morons.”

Livia doesn’t say anything; when a child stumbles into her crying, she rights the boy and kneels to talk to him while Alistair tries to defend the Chantry.

“They aren’t idiotic! They hold Thedas together, on a basis of shared religion.”

“Who’s religion? Oh, that’s right, the Chantry’s.”

“Hi, kiddo,” Livia says; she tries on a smile. She thinks it comes out pinched; she was never good with kids. Not even at the Tower; she couldn’t look at those kids and smile kindly, happily. All she could see was a lost childhood, lost innocence. “What’s the matter?”

The boy rubs at his eyes, sniffling. “I can’t find my mom…”

“The Chantry is the proper religion of Thedas!”

“But what about the elves? The Tevinter? The mages? The maleficars? All the apostates? They have beliefs that differentiate from the Chantry, don’t they deserve freedom to express it?”

Livia shares a glance with her mabari, who’s moved forward to offer comfort to the boy. “Where did you last see your mom?”

The child pats Harel softly, and Harel drags his tongue over the boy’s cheeks. “She told me to go into town when those things started showing, and that she’d follow, but she hasn’t showed yet and I’m scared.”

Livia assumes “those things” are the darkspawn; she’s been hearing whispered snippets about them showing around the town. “Do you have anyone you can stay with?”

“Those groups are all dangerous,” Alistair nearly whines. “And the Chantry helps keep us safe.”

“By branding all these other individuals as dangerous, foolish, incorrect, deadly—”

“Would you shut up?” Livia quips; she glares over her shoulder at her companions. “I will leave you if you don’t stop bickering!” She turns back to the boy and tries to smile again; she’ll have to practice forcing that expression. “Is there anyone you can stay with?”

The boy shakes his head. “It’s just me and Mommy.”

Livia frowns; she doesn’t know where to go from there.

Alistair squats by her side; his smile is softer, more natural than Livia’s. “Why don’t you go to the Chantry? They can take care of you until your mom shows up.” He holds his hand out, smile still in place. “Come on, I’ll walk you over, okay? And we’ll keep an eye out for your mom.”

The boy cautiously takes Alistair’s hand, and Alistair smiles encouragingly at the boy; he stands and starts walking towards the Chantry temple. “What does your mother look like?”

Livia watches him go, and Morrigan sidles up to her.

“For being a fool, he’s certainly charismatic.”

“Hasn’t wrapped you in his web, though,” Livia says; Alistair was charismatic, from the moment she met him taunting a mage. He’d chased the mage in circles, with a smile on his face and innocent words; he was the sort of dangerous that comes with honeyed words and a poisoned cup—or so Livia had read about in a novel once, snuck in by another mage.

She doubts he even knows what he could do with that power—he could topple kingdoms.

“I’m not idiotic enough to fall for his sweet words.” Morrigan nudges Livia, and Livia halfheartedly glares at her. “But you…”

Livia turns, crooks a finger at Harel, and works her way towards the tavern.

Morrigan hurries to match her pace; “you could have been free; so, why didn’t you strike him down? Back in the Wilds.”

Livia doesn’t say anything; she brushes a hand across her staff. How can she put it into words? That she wanted to, to strike him down and run free through the marsh; how she had to steal herself, to tell herself it wasn’t right. She had looked in his eyes—wide, tired, hopeful—and had seen herself; she’d seen someone who’d lost so much, but still found it in them to hang on—to believe in a future.

She pauses outside the tavern; “It wasn’t his charisma; it was his hope.” She reaches for the door.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

Morrigan turns to the lady in the corner, nursing a cup of mead; “Oh? And why is that?”

The woman looks at them with a slightly glassy eyed look; “Some of Teryn Loghain’s men have taken up station in there.” The woman chugs her drink. “Nasty sort, they are.”

Alistair comes trotting up then; “Loghain’s men are here?”

“You’re Wardens, yeah? They’re here looking for you.” The woman frowns at her empty cup; “if you clear them out I can get a refill without having to deal with their horrid comments.”

Livia will take any chance for the slightest bit of revenge; she pulls the door open and steps inside. Almost immediately, their presence is noticed and Loghain’s men step forward.

“Looks like we’ve been blessed, folks!” one man calls; he saunters close to Livia, posturing to be intimidating, and she pulls her head back to look up at him.

“Isn’t this the lass we’ve been looking for all morning?” another says. “And everyone said they hadn’t seen her?”

That could be due to her disposing of the bandits that had been savagely brutalizing the roads to and from Lothering; could be because she tossed a vial of poison to a farmer in need of some to protect their farm…

“Seems we were lied to,” the first man says.

Livia is preparing for a tart reply when a spry redheaded Chantry girl steps forward, speaking in their defense.

“Gentlemen, there’s no need for trouble; I’m sure these are just some genteel civilians, come for a drink.”

“You protect these traitors,” the second man says, stepping forward. “And you’ll share their fate.”

“Why don’t you run back to Loghain—since I’m in a merciful mood—and tell him his so-called traitors are coming.” Livia speaks evenly. “And we won’t be satisfied unless we have his head.”

“Enough talk!” the first man says; he’s obviously the leader of this band. “Take the Warden into custody, and kill anyone who gets in our way.”

Livia’s smirk is predatory; she would have killed them even if they had taken her peaceful offer. She won’t be satisfied until every follower of Loghain lays dead at her feet; she pulls her staff from its holster, and lets loose her lightning, her mana swirling. Morrigan calls upon ice, and Alistair swings his sword. In the cramped quarters of the tavern, Livia finds it difficult to know if she hits friend or foe, and then she recognizes the Chantry girl among the fray too—and on their side.

It's not long until they’ve overpowered Loghain’s men, until the leader—battered, bruised, bleeding—calls for peace.

“You’ve won!” he calls. “We surrender!”

The Chantry girl smiles; “They’ve learned their lesson; we can stop fighting now.”

“As if they deserve mercy,” Livia titters; she still grips her staff tight, still feels the adrenaline course through her veins, still feels the insatiable need for a fight, for the feeling of power and control.

“They’re no match for you; let them be!”

“They were going to kill us!” Morrigan argues, but the Chantry girl shakes her head.

“But they failed, and I do not wish death upon anyone.”

Livia lifts her eyes; she smirks, tightens her grip on her weapon. “But I do.”

A few more bursts of magic—her lightning, so bright and blinding, strikes sure. The man falls at her feet, dead, and she watches the blood spill from burns and cuts. She turns her gaze, slowly dulling as the battle energy fades, on the Chantry girl.

“I apologize for interrupting,” she explains, “But I couldn’t stand by and not help.”

“And you are?”

“I am Leliana, one of the ley sisters of the Chantry here in Lothering.”

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” Alistair asks; it is true. She had drawn daggers and moved as if it was natural for her.

“Not everyone is born into the Chantry,” Leliana says. “Some had more…colorful backgrounds before they joined.”

She says no more on the matter, and they know better than to dig further; Livia turns for the bar.

“You are Grey Wardens, yes?” she says, sidestepping into Livia’s path. “And you’ll be fighting the darkspawn; that’s what you do best, yes? Which is why I’ll be coming along to help!”

Livia blinks, unamusedly, at the girl; but Alistair has enough foresight to question her.

“Why would you want to join us?”

Leliana blinks at him; “the Maker told me to.”

Livia barks a laugh; she tries again to go for the bar. They were never allowed much drink in the Tower. She wonders, momentarily, where Jowan is and if he’s had a chance to try alcohol yet.

Once more, Leliana steps into her path. “I know it sounds insane, but it’s true! I had a dream—a vision!”

“Honestly,” Alistair faux whispers to Livia, “I thought we were all full up on crazy with Morrigan.”

“The Maker doesn’t want this darkness to keep spreading; what you are going to do is the Maker’s work, so let me help!”

Livia eyes her; there’s no reason to trust her, no reason to accept her into their group, but she sighs. They accepted a Wilds witch, a once-Templar, and a mabari, not to mention a mage from the Circle; she sighs again. “If you have nothing better to do, by all means join us…” She means it, though it sounds incredibly sarcastic.

“Oh! Thank you!” Leliana says. “I truly appreciate being given this chance; I will not let you down!”

Livia stares at the bar; there’s truly no time for a drink now, what with Loghain’s men and Leliana. She turns away and goes outside once more; at the moment, her party is full, and their voices rise as they introduce themselves, try to learn of each other. She closes her eyes in frustration when they eventually devolve into bickering; Harel looks at her, tongue lolling, and she scratches behind his ears.

They’re entering the farmland, the outskirts of Lothering, when something catches her eye; there’s a strange creature, tall and strong, captured in a cage. Livia turns her feet towards it, and her companions stuttering after her; she approaches the cage, and she sees it’s a man that has been captured—though it’s a strange looking man.

“What are you doing in here?” she asks, voice loud and commanding.

The man looks at her. “For punishment.”

“What are you accused of?”

The man racks his gaze up and down her. “Murder.”

She remembers the conversation she had with Jowan. “Are you guilty?”

Morrigan shakes her head; “Does it matter? He’s as good as dead for the length of time he’s been in here.”

“Are you guilty?” Livia asks again.

“I am here, yes?”

Livia feels herself break into a grin; he has spirit, strength, something feral in his blood. “Who was it that you’ve been accused of murdering?”

“Does it matter?” he says, and there’s that undercurrent of power in his voice. “I killed them, I have been subdued, I have been sentenced.”

She wants him out; she wants him at her side. Anyone with this strength, this power, this ferocity does not belong in a cage. “If I could garner your freedom, what would you do?”

“I would find another way to atone for my sins.”

“Would you not think fighting darkspawn would atone for your sins?” Perhaps she’s locking him into another cage, another yolk for him to carry, or perhaps she’s giving him a second chance; she can’t be sure. “Would that not help you atone for your sins? To fight along my side?”

He ponders this option; then, he slowly nods. “I suppose it would, yes.”

Livia turns on her heel to address her companions; Leliana speaks.

“We’ll have to address the Chantry mother; the Chantry is the one who placed him here.”

Livia frowns; she had sworn she would not step foot in a Chantry, not after leaving the Tower, not even if she was dying. But this man’s fate lays in her hands—she sees Jowan’s smile for a moment, pressed between the Templars, the blood magic, the stone walls of the Tower. She marches for the Chantry; she hesitates but a moment at the doorway, but she finds it in her to step through.

Leliana stays behind, saying she’s not entirely welcome back in the Chantry, and Morrigan makes disgusted faces at everything they come across; Livia wants to too, but she schools her face. She’s here for the man—for Sten, the Qunari warrior. She finds the Chantry mother in a back room, and she wastes no time addressing why she’s here.

“I want the Qunari’s release.”

The mother smiles serenely. “I cannot do that; he has murdered a family.”

A family? There had to be a reason, and even then Livia still wants him free. “Mother, I will take the key by force.”

“Are you threatening me, child?”

Yes; oh, yes.

“No!” Alistair cries, horrified. “No, mother, we would never! Please forgive us.”

“I am a Grey Warden and I demand you hand the Qunari over, or there will be consequences.”

“Is this how Grey Wardens act? To threaten the Chantry? What sacrilege this is!”

This is not how the Grey Wardens act; this is how Livia, a mage kept in chains for too long, acts.

“Her patience wears thin, mother,” Morrigan speaks. “Will you give us the Qunari, or not?”

The Chantry mother shakes her head, and Alistair pales in mortification. “If this is the Wardens’ true nature, then who am I to fight it?” She hands the key over. “Take your Qunari, and go; but may the Maker judge you.”

Livia snatches the little metal piece; the Maker will have no say in her life, present or after. She storms from the Chantry, through Lothering’s streets, and back to the Qunari’s cage. She asks again; “are you guilty?”

Sten’s face betrays nothing, though his eyes—hardened, cold—stare out across the fields beyond. “I am.”

“Why?”

He turns his gaze on her; “That is my burden to carry.”

She fits the key into the lock and turns it; there’s a snick as the lock is released, a whine as the door swings open. Though Alistair is tense from her display in the Chantry, and Leliana is skeptical, with Morrigan the epitome of casual defiance, Livia cannot find it in herself to believe this to be a wrong decision.

She wishes her cage were so easily escaped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last thing, I know Livia seems really whiny right now, with all her "wishes to be free", but she'll settle into her role shortly, I promise!


End file.
